


Worthy

by dollyfish



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Frate is selfish and probably a spoiled kid in bed, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Nero will never know about this., Oral Sex, Smut, there's something about a crucifix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyfish/pseuds/dollyfish
Summary: Vanno was always the bravest boy Frate knew.





	

 

While the crown hangs heavy on either side

Give me one last kiss while we're far too young to die

_Panic! at the Disco_

 

 

 

Vanno was the bravest boy Frate knew.  
On the inside, bravery was a prickly thing. Bravery, and some seemed to enjoy the disenchanted cynicism in asserting this, was by no means anything special, beneficial, much less that advantageous asset heroes always possessed in order to make the story work. And cynism had nothing to do with those adults. It's just a flavour, a caressing taste they chose to give words instead of alcohol. Cynism couldn't take the place of bullets. All of it was true. About bravery. All of it.  
As if nine year olds would care. Children know cynism better than men, and certainly know their heart better than the pace of their own footsteps.  
Mass was on Sunday, no matter how hot the church got, what with the Sun dripping heavily from the picturesque Catherine window, or Vanno's steady and bruised hand holding the song book so close to Frate's belly so that he could read fluidly. Between them, only the vibrant, fermenting air, so thick the boy could feel it pushing at the bottom of his every breath. That bubbly heat tended to persist, at times increase, until Frate stopped concentrating on Vanno's hand under the spirals of the ink. There never were any misapprehensions, between them.  
There were other details that Frate often happened to arrange in his head, just naturally, to employ those minutes between consciousness and dream.  
Vanno was trouble. Dad seemed to like Vanno. Maybe not like like parents do. Like bosses do, maybe. Maybe he just liked him.  
Maybe this, maybe that... And he was fast asleep.

 

 

000

 

 

What a perfect fairytale ending.  
The bedroom is flooded with delicious, late afternoon honeyed light. So that it all looks unrealistic. There's flowers arranged theatrically in a china vase on the table, white like the teeth of a child and purer than water. There's the half-shut window by the large garden, hand-embroidered curtains, crumpled used sheets.  
Footsteps as feather-light as dust twirling around the elegant ornaments. The owner takes great pride in them. And the owner's owner gets easily satisfied.  
The last of Ronaldo's breaths still tickles the back of his neck, but when Frate reaches behind and grazes the skin, he finds he's unable to keep a contented sigh to himself.  
Frate smiles as he turns left, then around, to look at himself in the mirror. Strangely enough, he feels like he's the one who's going to get married tomorrow, not his sister. It's safe to say he feels happier than her; no matter how dismal and disgraceful, and _utterly_ selfish it sounds.  
Was Jesus at fault when he let men nullify him for their sins? Is Frate at fault when he lets himself be real, in bed with another's spouse?  
This was not the first time, nor the second. If Frate has any saying in the matter, and he does, far from the last.  
Ronaldo is gone now, but his manly scent stays. The walls are impregnated with it, and the melliflous smell of sex and subjection, which he has down to an art.  
He doesn't need a mirror to know that his body is the canvas.  
"What does this mean?"  
Frate looks over his shoulder. His eyes go up immediately to the scornful set of eyebrows that complement the deliciously deep wrinkle at the corner of Vanno's mouth. What really is interesting is how Vanno isn't looking at him. Frate see tension in the broad line of his shoulders. He wonders if that is because he's feeling the calmest he has been in years and years.  
Frate doesn't feel the slightest urge to hide despite being naked from head to toe.  
"Hey, come on." Vanno's steel gaze is trained on the bed, obvious evidence of an act so obscene he can't begin to explain it. "You're kiddin' me."  
There's nothing Frate can do that would help it sink in. So he lets Vanno talk.  
"Did you think about it for a second? ...Shit, did you think about what your father would say? Since when has this been going on? Fio better not suspect anything."  
Frate thoroughly relishes hearing his sister's name, now, as the pressure of Ronaldo's complacent fingers feels still wrapped around his tighs, proprietorial, like those street children nowadays are with the rocks they find around. This is exactly what someone like Vanno cannot grasp. He and his clouded heart, his honour.  
The Vanetti smiles ruefully, then walks back to the bed with a hand tangled in his golden hair, his back forming a noble curve. Vanno finally takes the hint and hastily locks the door behind his back. He looks up just in time to find Frate leaning remissly against the headboard. A bored look on his face and utter laziness in his limbs.  
"Want to know what the problem is? You think I'm just going with the flow. Like always."  
"You don't wish Fio any harm, do you?"  
"It doesn't matter." Frate sees Vanno's confusion change into something angrier. "Use your head. Even if she knew, she would still get married to him... It's not up to her."  
"And it's not up to me to tell her," Vanno clarifies. "Or to tell anyone."  
"See. We're good."  
"No. You don't deserve him."  
And the damage is done. Frate's head snaps to the left, his body straightening as he comes to a sitting position; the shape of his body suddenly appearing angular, taut like a needle. His image, still, a striking vision. The creased corolla of sheets pooled at his sides, the soft globe of his knee screening what the bedsheets do not, only emancipate the melted honey that the window pours on his gentle shoulders.  
"Oh, I get it now." Frate's voice is alarmingly similar to curdled milk, and still he looks like a saint. "What I want doesn't matter. Will never matter."  
"Wanting something doesn't mean it's good for you, Frate."  
"Since when do you know what is and what isn't good for me? You must be a fool if you think you can-- just like this! Barge in, and take this one thing away from me--" Frate ignores his own trembling lips and stops Vanno's attempt to cross the room, Don't you even take another step, by menacingly pointing a finger at him. He doesn't care how pathetic the effect really is, but he leans forward, and if he was born with fangs, now he would be showing them without even realising. "What I've earned with my own damn efforts, you stay away from it."  
Vanno looks anything but defeated. His jaw clenches, and that would be upsetting if this wasn't a man Frate has realied on ever since he can remember staring at his reflection and wondering what it lacks. The way Vanno walks up to him doesn't even make him shrink away, rather hold still, much like a deer in the headlights.  
The sudden proximity of Vanno's body to the edge of the mattress registers a second too late.  
"Look at me."  
"You don't get to do that to me..."  
"Kid, look at me."  
Frate's breath hitches. It doesn't dawn on him until he's obeyed, how deep-rooted it is, in him, the habit to wait for commands. His mind belatedly supplies an old thing Deltoro said: how bad habits tend to die hard.  
The blue in Vanno's irises is too honest, too frantic for this room.  
It's almost morbid, how he can stand the lucidity in Frate's eyes while Frate burns himself out, burns rotten.

 

 000

 

  
When Frate said something that had to do with guns, Nero frowned and sidestepped the conversation. But Vanno would never pass on a chance to turn it into something golden, crudely conceptual, something worth listening to. Vanno was the bravest.  
"What happened to your hand?"  
"A bastard's revolving knife. No big deal, kid."  
"And that bruise, then?"  
"The Don, Frate."

"Will my dad get sick of this Don stuff one day?"  
"He already is, he'll probably die from illness."  
"Will you, then?"  
"Now, now, do I look like one who gets sick, Frate?"

They'd been sitting on the front porch for God knows how long, but Frate only now noticed that the blue sky was almost blinding, mysteriously deep, and the Vanetti mansion stood as silent as a rock, down here, the humanly pathetic house of cards that it was. It was a wild feeling, to know that you stand under the same sky that will watch you die. And each and every shot that Vanno had fired was and always would be vain thunder, dissipating into nothingness.  
It's hard to tell if that was the clearest moment of his life or if he was allucinating the sky as well as the faintest speckles of gold in Vanno's irises. The intoxicating cold blue, it touched something, prickling underneath Frate's skin like atomic-sized sparks. From his lower lip, to his neck, to his cheeks.  
And, he actually found breathing just a tad easier, because this heat was something he could recognize. His cheekbones felt like they hadn't moved at all lately, when the corners of Frate's mouth curled into a shameless smile that boys his age shouldn't keep inside.  
Vanno's aqueous eyes shouldn't make his feet feel lighter. Frate brightened up when he held out his small hand, more graceful and constantly paler than a boy's should be, waiting for anything to happen, except Vanno's mouth to form a half, not-quite-there-smile. Frate answered the unasked question leaning into the other boy a little more stubbornly, excited to test these new secret boundaries, then tangled his own fingers with Vanno's more masculine ones. Forefinger first, then the middle; and here comes the most complicated part, and the sweetest unclosure, with the thumb.  
Encouraged by the quaint autumnal atmosphere, he brought Vanno's wrist in his lap and began tracing the veins that ran underneath. Vanno was warm in every sense of the word. The quick pulse drummed a beat into Frate's fingertips, gently translating that rythm into a sweet nectar as physically painful to lose as a drug. Frate suddenly couldn't bear the thought.  
Those were happy days. There was Nero, and there was Fio, who of course didn't make his position relevant or important to anyone's eyes, but there were bicycles, and church, his nice church clothes, and a friend who would spend time with him and let him hold his hand.  
Perhaps something went wrong as Frate studied it, but too much was going on.  
"This is the heart line. Let's see..."  
"What, you believe in palm reading?"  
"Well, I mean-- Oh look, your life line is so similar to mine."  
"I guess."

  
What Frate really should have said is:  
_I guess I'll stand just one step behind you._  
_Until you look back._

 

000

 

 

 

Heat rolls down Frate's cheeks. He adjusts his legs so as to sit sideways. Fumbles quickly with Vanno's belt before letting both ends hang open. Vanno is breathing heavily through his nose.  
"Why the hell did you come here," Frate mumbles, mouth just cruelly beginning to water. It makes it harder than usual for him to be assertive. As if that wasn't enough, Vanno is older, wider, and aspires to someone better, which is a reality that makes the bones in Frate's chest constrict and a deep hunger in him bare its teeth.  
"Is it important," There's a resignation in Vanno's voice, "right now?" that isn't quite resignation. So Frate tries to vivisect it. He pulls the smooth fabric of Vanno's underwear down right after unzipping his pants with his teeth, proving himself a good learner, and his nails graze the man's muscled belly, and just that innocent contact is enough to scatter his senses.  
Frate tilts his head up in lust-driven, mechanical anticipation.  
The moment he frees Vanno's lenght he can only feel a shiver run down each of his vertebrae, twisting them unnaturally. Not even the blink of an eye, Frate opens up wide to receive as much of his cock as he believes he can take.  
Vanno's thickness causes his lips to quiver around a subtle gasp for air. Instead, his windpipe squeezes around a thin, searing breath, further enhancing his intoxication. The concreteness of it feels so warm and magnificently wholesome, so surreal. Frate has difficulties in finding his own sanity. At this point he realizes he feels too good to care.  
He knows how good he feels way too well. He's been told how pleasurable being in his mouth is, and there might be some pride there, clumsy and immature like grapes before their season. He's beautiful, and he knows. He's childish, and he knows.  
Hunger takes over him and Frate bobs his head to and fro, sucking and sucking until a weak whimper escapes his burning lungs. A fire lights up somewhere deep, ravaging his chest and bringing to the surface feelings long buried; restless summer nights, changing into harsh Monday mornings. Back then, being eclipsed was as mundane as spitting that awful bitter toothpaste in the basin.  
Frate's tongue slides on the underside of Vanno's cock, so smoothly it's exasperating. It strokes the thickest veins there, stilling in order to feel them, pulsing from stimolation against sweet velvet.  
With a suave flick, Frate elicits a low grunt from the man. He does it more roughly, receives the same reaction.  
He then swallows, the roof of his soft mouth pressing down on the erection. Vanno has grown rock hard from the ministrations, and Frate pushes himself against the fat cock beginning to thrust in his throath, eyes rolling back at the unbridled sensation.  
Not paying his own needs much thought, Frate's fists close tightly around the fabric of Vanno's pants. He lets his own lenght lie on the sheets, in favor of the task at hand.  
Neglecting himself this way results in the starved need in his gut swelling, strong and hot and vulnerable all the same. He doesn't want to touch himself before he's told so. It's the rule.  
"Fuck," Vanno cusses, sounding out of breath just as much as Frate feels eager to steal every kind of restraint away. "Fuck, kid, this is..."  
Frate hasn't had enough yet.  
He brings his hand up to palm at Vanno's balls, and strokes the stretched skin there, where his cock connects with the pelvis, his gestures fleshy and arousing, and then unashamedly blows on the slit. Frate circles the head with his tongue, once and then again, drawing out the motion so leisurely it clashes with the ravenous look drowned in deep blue.  
Vanno's erection finally gets past the tight rim of muscles of Frate's throat, when he takes it in his mouth at once, again. There's not even a second to catch their breath before Frate is gagging on Vanno's cock, treasuring this feeling of being good and wanted and filled, needed. His muscles are well-trained there, and maybe with the hand petting his nape Vanno can feel himself sink in Frate's eager throat.  
Frate gives another uncoordinated few licks, almost reaching the base of Vanno's lenght, somehow taken aback by his own desire to keep Vanno there as long as possible. Until his own body pratically begs him for oxygen. Then, he'll release the erection, pull some inches back, and admire how perfect that cock looks, considerably slickened with his spit, oozing precum like the holy wine spills from the priest's goblet sometimes.  
Frate healfheartedly closes his moist eyes and his mouth goes empty, cold. He steals Vanno one last peck, and realises he maybe finds too much pleasure in the salty wetness that spreads on the left corner of his mouth.  
He passes his tongue over his rich lips. One taste overlaps another; chaos on his mouth, in his mind, in every aspects of his life but not in Vanno's hands, when they seize his hips and lay him down on the bed. His eyes look like a prayer. They're brave, even now, in their own way.  
Frate is not. "Your hands. I want them inside."  
"Where?"  
"Inside me. Inside me. Anywhere."  
Oh, he likes the way a struggle is still playing out in Vanno's eyes. As a child, he used to like how Vanno presented himself as an unmovable rock that he and his siblings could always turn to, if needed; but he likes more how the rock hardly stays afloat, right now. Frate likes the hard lines of his face, likes the tacit truce between them like an electrostatic wire that feels too good, really too good, if teased. He likes the sprawl of Vanno's fingers on his warm stomach, dragging up, and up.  
"A-Ah-- Yes, yes, please. Oh God. Yes."  
Vanno isn't Ronaldo, so he doesn't torture his nipples, twirling and scraping so as to paint the swollen skin an angry red. They're still like that from thirty minutes ago, and he doesn't fool himself into thinking that Vanno can't notice. That he still has some semblance of secret left.  
"Touch me more--"  
Vanno isn't Ronaldo, they're nothing alike, so the way he urges Frate's legs to part is neither brutally skilled nor disturbingly careful, but there's a lump in Frate's throat anyway. Frate's breath quickens, his insides melting like chocolate cake under the midday sun. He doesn't know what's making him the most lightheaded.  
He keeps thinking: Ronaldo's hands are bolder.  
Vanno passes one finger over the rim, and it's like God flashes before his eyelids just for the split-second it takes to feel completely unmaterial and come back down. The fleeting pressure turns into a heavy, aggressive warmth when Vanno inserts two digits at once.  
Frate's voice breaks on a scream.  
In his purely instinctual high, he makes a clutch at Vanno's shoulders. One of Vanno's knees is anchored to the mattress, keeping Frate's milky, almost premature thighs spread apart. The boy, fair however much unfaithful, looks like a painting left unfinished. From the round line of his calf, up to the roused cock spilling on the cream-colored bedsheets, and up. To his disheveled hair. Artists of every age must have worn themselves down to come up with the exact same shade of sand that crowns Frate's head.  
There's something poetically disturbing that lies in his desire, to offer all of himself, to make somebody make him come undone.  
Half-lidded eyes gaze up at him, but cannot glimpse at Vanno's partly wondering, partly enticed thoughts. No more words are spoken.  
Frate leans into Vanno's neck and for a moment, they both have to get a hold of their breathing. Frate unbuttons Vanno's shirt, baring an inch of skin in order to find the object of importunate thoughts; as soon as he finds it hanging there, golden and immaculate, he wraps his tongue around the small crucifix pendant.  
Frate's entrance isn't tight at all. A few drops of Ronaldo's seed are sticking to the pink languid flesh that Vanno's feeling for the very first time. Inside, the strongest sensation is the wet heat that seems to want to swallow him more and more. Vanno ventures further. What he finds is flexible, tender skin.  
The boy bites down on the necklace. He can feel his own voluptous heart on his tongue against cold, refined metal, which he would only dare to steal peeks at when he found himself beside Vanno at mass. It was enough for him, and now it's too much.  
It's too much, and he thinks he's going insane.  
"Ngh... There..." He mumbles, muffled by the crucifix, immediately starting to suck on it when Vanno complies.  
"Wait. I'm gonna-- Wait a sec-- Yeah, here we go."  
"Vanno--?"  
The man's broad chest is suddenly heavy, pressed against his shoulderblades. Frate's thin waist gets lifted from the mattress, his position turned over so that the entirety of his slender body fits under Vanno's much larger one. The feeling of being controlled completely is so great it overwhelms him, shattering the last piece of decorum that hadn't left when he took Vanno into his mouth, not much different from a slut you could find down the street if you know where to look.  
Vanno takes up thrusting his fingers inside his hole. He's warmed up to it and the smooth motions have a whole new rough tonality.  
Frate's moans are gushing out tragically vulnerable, enough to make him feel even more naked. More naked than this. He hates the part of him that likes to let them out, to feel powerless and wrong and filthy, to have a man treat him like a work of holiness.  
The thrusts reach deep, then deeper, leaving Frate breathlessly grasping at the sheets, pale-knuckled, barely here anymore. The responses of the lower half of his body go unregistered to him, whose biggest regret is the loss of Vanno's cold crucifix between his teeth, but he can guess that they're good if Vanno's grunts are anything to go by.  
He feels Vanno's fingers draw circles, feels it at the bottom of his stomach, and pleads for this to never go away, he wants their imprint on his insides, everywhere.  
Frate casts what must be a longing look over his shoulder, paying close attention to his own sweat-slickened back. As if spellbound, his sight lingers on the way his hips rise to meet Vanno's strong hand. Vanno is squeezing one of Frate's asscheek in his free palm. Lust overflows from his expression, and this is when Frate thinks with bitter self-satisfaction that he's taken both men supposed to make him a second choice, and made them his.  
_You wouldn't be able to stop moving like a whore even if your father walked in on us._  
"Look at you, kid." Vanno speaks in a low, coarse voice that Frate has never heard before. It pushes the heart in his chest in a dark place, feeding it pleasure like one feeds a rabid dog. "You feelin' good? Shit, if someone saw us now. I'd be a dead man."  
That voice is what pushes him over the edge. Or maybe the unyelding force hitting his sweetest spot over and over. Frate rides the high out, his limbs weakening one after another, and he sinks into the soft bedding like a porcelaine doll.  
It's a matter of seconds until Vanno releases his load between Frate's limp thighs, after stroking himself at the sight of disarray splayed before him. Come slowly drips down Frate's legs, his hole now a small messy thing. He looks the most insensitive in the post-orgasmic haze.  
Vanno makes himself comfortable on the pillows beside him, searching his pants for a lighter.  
Frate doesn't smoke, and Vanno does offer when he forgets this. He forgets often.  
"I still think you don't deserve him."  
Frate closes his eyes, lacking the energy to come up with a frustrated answer. As the cigarette expires, he lines up their palms and their hands lock together, because there's no other way this could go, no other way they can truly touch each other. Perhaps they'll never grow on each other's skin, but Vanno's hands make him feel a little real.  
Such a perfect fairytale ending.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> end me this is so embarassing ahhhh  
> take this as my attempt to explore Frate's character, whom I love immensely and will always protect. the underage tag is for safety since they're hiding the canon ages from us.  
> still now that i wrote this i realize i could have put sooo many other kinks in here but i couldn't wait to finish this and be finally free....... @ HellChat I hope you enjoyed this tho, I put my heart into it ok  
> thanks for reading!


End file.
